angel boy
by unwieldyink
Summary: "I'm dreaming. It's that nightmare again. The angel is still watching me." IMPORTANT TW DISTURBING IMAGERY. i don't know if i'm ever going to finish this but i thought i'd post it anyways.


I'm dreaming.

It's that nightmare again.

The angel is still watching me.

.

I guess I should explain.

My name's Will. I'm seventeen. I live with my mom, my step dad, and my four (yes, four) step siblings.

My life is normal. I do well enough in school, but I'm no genius. I play basketball, but I'm not good enough to be the captain. I have plenty of friends, but I'm not the most popular kid in school.

Everything about my life is fine.

Except for my dreams.

For as long as I can remember, dreams have equaled nightmares. On the rare occasions I do get a non-nightmarish dream, they're just… odd. Not good. I've never had a good dream. I envy the people who get to fly in their dreams, or who get to meet their idol in their subconscious. I'd even take driving an out-of-control car, or showing up to school naked. But my dreams have never been like that. They've always been about dealing with my best friend's murder, or watching my little sister's arms get torn off, or me trying to kill my mother. I don't know why. They don't really bother me anymore, though; I'm used to them. I always thought it was funny when people in movies wake up screaming or gasping from a nightmare. I watch my family's blood pool in front of me in my mind, and then I open my eyes and stretch and yawn in the sunshine just like everyone else.

So I'm no stranger to nightmares. But recurring dreams are new to me. Especially ones that keep happening every night for an entire month.

I've been dealing with one of those recently. Every night, I close my eyes, and open them to see blood on my hands. It's dark. And cold. There are voices whispering around me, but I can't make out what they say. The only thing I can see is my hands, stained red with blood and only gaining more by the second. It crawls up my fingers, my palms, my arms, up to the elbow, now to the shoulder. I'm wearing a white shirt, but the blood dyes its sleeves quickly. This is different than my normal nightmares. Usually they start off normal, or what feels like normal to me. Even if I'm in an apocalypse scenario, or I'm an assassin with sights set on my step father, or a soldier in World War Three, my dreams always start out feeling ordinary to me, routine, as if this is the way things have always been. Until it starts going wrong.

This is different. This is the first time I've started off scared- usually the nightmares try to build, or lull me into a false sense of security before pulling the gore-rug out from under me. But this time, the instant I open my eyes, I'm full of fear. This doesn't feel normal to me. I'm confused. I'm disoriented. I'm angry. And I can't see anything.

Just as the voices around me swell to a crescendo, just as the blood seeping up my body reaches my neck, everything changes. I'm standing at the base of a hill, the grass just starting to turn yellow from a drought. A dry wind pushes through the scene, blowing my hair and the grass alike. My hair is straw yellow. It looks like the grass. It's sunset in this scene, the sky's brilliant hue casting rays of pure gold across the hill. Maybe that's one of the reasons why the grass looks so yellow.

I'm wearing a white shirt again. It's white. Not red.

I look to the top of the hill, and see the angel. He's facing away from me, those magnificent white wings arching out on either side of him. Each one must be at least as long as he is tall.

The angel turns to look at me, and he is beautiful. Dark wispy hair curls around his ears. His eyes are black as midnight; sharp, observant, but also empathetic. Pitying. He pities me. Just a hint of freckles splashes across his nose. I am in love, every night, every time.

The angel boy's pity melts away, replaced with surprise, confusion. A hint of hope. His lips part slightly, and I want to fall to my knees at his feet

I have a history with this angel. In real life, I don't, but dream Will does. He knows he does. I know I do.

I want to. I want to have a history with him, because if I do, it means that this is not the first time I'm seeing those striking eyes and sloping shoulders, scarred in a way that feels poetic, shown off by his slanted himation. It means I've managed to look at him before. I want to have more than just this moment to take him in.

He is staring at me with a quizzical look now, but there's a pleasant shine in his eyes, as if I simultaneously puzzle and amuse him. He takes a breath to speak to me, and I lean in close to listen.

And then I wake up.

I'm in my bedroom. My same old bedroom, with its bookshelves of old soccer trophies and poster board with photos of my friends.

I've never been in love before. Not in real life, anyways.

I miss the angel boy.


End file.
